


And the words so sweet

by Papyreads (Haywire_Hakaze)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Cis-female reader, F/F, F/M, Gaster is introduced as Aster, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Drowning, M/M, Mid-divorce Reader, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Reader Is Not Chara (Undertale), Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader completely skips the Ruins and Snowdin, Reader is not Frisk's mom, Reader mentally self-flagellates, Will try to be canon-compliant, katsaridaphobia, mention of bugs, mentions of abuse, pre-game, reader has anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-06-30 18:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haywire_Hakaze/pseuds/Papyreads
Summary: “Quill!” You call him again, voice sharply spiked with worry. Your son stops an inch away from his prize in a whole-body flinch, shocked by the loud register of his name, and turns to look at you with wide eyes. As he pivots the ground beneath his foot squelches under the pressure and he slips. His foot comes out from underneath him, flying forward in a kick, and he flails backward. He falls with a gasp and a splash, ripping a cry of alarm from your throat.This story follows you and your child as you explore the Underground and try to make a comfortable life down there, while also struggling with the fear and anxiety of being discovered as a human. You struggle with learning a culture while pretending to be part of it, learning to trust, and slowly come to terms with losing your surface life.





	1. And I know that I should let go but I can't

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is going to be extremely rough to read, so I apologize ahead of time. Just, DEFINITELY check out the fic's tags.  
> In general I'll make sure trigger warnings for individual chapters are down in the endnotes so you guys can avoid spoilers, but for this specific chapter they'll be here.
> 
> TW: emotional abuse, psychological abuse, sexual coercion/abuse, child endangerment, graphic depictions of drowning

Ebott wasn’t that small of a city. You knew that. Compared to the tiny little town you went to for college, years ago, it may as well have been a metropolis. Back there you could have driven the span of the whole town in five minutes if the traffic lights favored you. Any place that could be called home was in disrepair, with weathered paint and split wooden siding, mildew or moss creeping down from the rooftops as yards grew unruly and sidewalks cracked. Most of the people who claimed to live in that town had houses down winding back-roads outside of city limits, and those who did live nearby were either elderly people or college students who were renting out of old houses turned duplexes-- or even, you recall bitterly, the roach-infested quadplex you moved into the year after you graduated. It was a dismal little town with failing infrastructure, but it was a _college town_ , and that somehow justified a high cost of living.

You had been mostly ignorant of how bad things were, when you were still enrolled in school yourself. You’d gotten a full ride to the local university with dorm lodgings and all, and when summer came you migrated back home to your mother’s to await the new year. The worst you ever dealt with was having to travel forty-five minutes out east to go see a movie or go to the mall, and the most exciting thing to occur back then was the controversial vote to switch from a dry county to a wet county. It had been exciting to you, of course; at that time you were almost legally able to buy alcohol yourself, and you had the naive hope that perhaps your town would be able to grow once more if it had the added revenue come in.

You’re not sure if it ever did benefit, in the long term. A couple local restaurants got their liquor licences and a couple of liquor stores opened up, and at one point a pool hall opened but shut down again within six months when the owner passed away, you think. But aside from that, you didn’t pay much attention. You were distracted by your youth and your love. You had been in love with Patrick since junior year in high school, so when he finally got out of the military to pursue higher education yourself you had been more than willing to support him. You got two jobs and did your best to juggle them against finding time for your fiancé, and-- perhaps once a month-- your friends. They had all moved on after graduation, their chosen fields taking them either back home or to new horizons. The closest one, both figuratively and distance-wise, moved an hour north of you, to Ebott.

So you found yourself already starting to feel isolated, stuck with no personal time and not much going for you. Your entire life went on hold for Patrick, and try though you might to convince yourself, it wore on you. You were always a bit high-strung, but age did nothing to temper your nerves and your anxiety steadily grew worse and worse. You had no outlets aside from your laptop and phone, no physical comfort except what you got from your cat, and it seemed silly at the time to vent your frustrations when your biggest problem was being strapped for time or energy to do the things you enjoyed. So you vegetated in front of the screen until the deepest hours of night, exhausted but unwilling to go to bed when you had peace and quiet. Patrick sweet-talked you into a quick wedding at the county courthouse one day during an extended break between his classes for convenience’s sake, and the expensive dress you ordered not three months before hung unused in its plastic sheath.

As school began to stress Patrick out, he took up smoking again. And when that caused breathing problems for him and he couldn’t pass his physical tests for the college’s ROTC program anymore, he started what would become a continuous spiral of attempts to quit followed by irritability and weight gain, more stress in his classes, then inevitably the breaking point where he would pick up cigarettes again. His grades began to slip in his second year, and instead of utilizing the resources available to him on campus he sought out another coping mechanism: retail therapy.

It hadn’t been too bad, at first. A few model ships, some LEGO sets. Mindless things to let him work with his hands and get some of the stress out. You could appreciate that; your field of study was all about making things with your hands and expressing yourself. But the purchases became bigger and bigger, and suddenly the two of you had several game consoles and games, and he had leased a new motorcycle, and you had more debt than you were comfortable with. Plus, you both lived in a heavy crime area and you were terrified that your house would get broken into or one day the yelling you often heard outside would escalate and you’d catch a stray bullet through your thin walls.

Your concerns led to arguments and tension between the two of you, and nothing got resolved. His spending habits didn’t change. Neither did his grades, or his disposition. He quickly became annoyed with you, not just for your worries but for your social interests and the way you spent your free time; your unwillingness to let your current friendships fade over long distance and make new friends; your need for routine and dislike of sudden changes in your day; your political leanings… Everything devolved into a fight. Conversations would usually start off innocuous enough, with you reading entertainment articles aloud in the car as you both traveled to the next city over for a night out, but then something would catch his attention and send him ranting about whatever fault he found in the material. You’d defend the article, which then in turn became you defending yourself when he questioned how much you really knew about a subject. The moment you fumbled with your words he’d call you gullible or naive, or tell you that you had no idea how the “real world” worked. And then the two of you would argue in circles, you trying to defend your stance as his voice rose louder and louder in the small confines of your sedan, until he’d start revving the engine and taking tight corners far too fast on the backroads, occasionally jerking the brakes and intentionally swerving in the lanes. The screaming would begin in earnest then: Why were you clinging to the grab handle so tightly? Why were you crying? Didn’t you trust him? 

Most arguments in the car ended that way, with you anxiously sobbing and leaning into the door for purchase until you got to whatever restaurant he’d planned for your impromptu date. Dinners were spent with him acting sullen and hurt, and you feeling rattled until that fear morphed into guilt and the need to apologize. To appease his ego. So once you got home you’d lead him to bed and let him have his way with you, grunting and wheezing and dripping with sweat, until a sense of normalcy returned in the house.

Homebound fights were similar, where he’d lose his cool and kick in the kitchen cabinets while screaming about how stubborn you were. He’d stalk you from room to room whenever you tried to get away and let him cool down for a moment. If you locked yourself into the spare room he’d unplug the ethernet cable so you couldn’t use the computer for your usual outlet. If he could barge into the room before you could shut the door Patrick would back you into corners, verbally and physically, towering a full head and a half taller than you. He’d insult you, pressing into your personal space with an intense, dark look in his eyes, spiking the chill of fear in your veins until you lashed out and shoved him away or hit him. It was what he wanted, of course. For you to feel trapped. To be cornered and wounded, and to attack him. Not once did he lay a hand on you, but he didn’t need to for you to be exactly where he wanted you. Not when you could feel his ill intent radiating from his body, see his clenched fists and know he was sending the message that he could beat you to death if he really wanted to. Or that without effort at all he could reach into the top shelf of his high cabinet and pull out his gun. Intimidation was all he needed, to get you into a frenzied panic. You’d feel remorse instantly for resorting to violence, and in no time he’d have you sobbing in his arms and begging for forgiveness. The argument would be forgotten for the time being, and you’d drape yourself over him like a blanket and latch your lips to his like a lamprey, sucking his bottom lip desperately while he gripped your hips tight.

That was what sex with Patrick became. A way to atone for whatever slight you caused him, whatever wrong you did in his eyes. It didn’t matter that you weren’t aroused, when you simply had to reach inside the nightstand and grab lube. You already needed it anyway, since you couldn’t stay lubricated and comfortable even back when things were good between you. (Something that naturally made him exasperated, whenever he had to put in extra effort or whenever you’d wince or complain about feeling raw afterward.) Your interest in being intimate with Patrick faded. Sex became a chore. An obligation, part of your marital duty. Work, pick up after Patrick, cook, and offer yourself up to sate him whenever he was restless.

Naturally, the one time you agree-- reluctantly-- not to use protection for his birthday, you get pregnant.

You’d always been paranoid about becoming pregnant. Media had long popularized the trope of complicated deliveries and the new mother dying shortly after her baby was born, and while the quiet rational part of your brain knew it was statistically unlikely, the terror was insurmountable. The moment you became sexually active, you counted the days between periods no matter the precautions you took. You were pretty regular, so when your flow still hadn’t started nearly a week after you expected it to, you took a test. And another. And another to confirm. Shaking, horrified because neither of you were ready for anything like this, because you couldn’t bare to go through to term, you told Patrick.

Stupid.

He’d been delighted, and your distress was lost on him. When you tried to articulate your fears he dismissed you, and told you he’d never forgive you if you chose to abort. He’d kick you out. Your family would disown you. You’d waste without him, why would you try to ruin what the two of you have together?

Naturally, while you wrestled with what to do, praying you would miscarry before the first trimester ended and you wouldn’t have to choose, he took the choice from you. For Christmas he acted out the cliché and gave your grandmother a tiny pair of socks, letting her quickly puzzle out the situation with joy lighting up her eyes. Congratulations were in order, and when you quietly pulled her aside and told her how you felt, her wrinkled face crumpled and she began to cry, criticizing you for daring to think of something so selfish and horrible. 

Your friend Tatum, when they learned of the situation, offered what little support they could from afar… but you were stuck. Deep in your heart, you knew it.

Funny thing about hormones, though… The farther along you got, the less you felt like there was a parasite attached to your insides and more like something soft and sweet and worthwhile was curled up, taking shelter within you. You were one of the lucky ones you didn’t experience morning sickness, which helped, even if you quickly found yourself averse to certain smells. The first nearly-imperceptible kicks, almost mistaken for gas, became stronger. You could feel it when your child got the hiccups. When they repositioned themselves. Patrick’s temper cooled, for the most part. Your fights came fewer and further between, and he started to dote on you. His spending habits decreased, and you were able to pay off some of his debts. Patrick took up a night job and did his studying when things were slow there, working on getting his grades up. At his insistence you dropped the more taxing of your two jobs (though to make up for the lost income you worked longer hours at the remaining job you had).

The rare time during your pregnancy where he picked fights, though, he was especially cruel. It’s been so long now you don’t remember what set him off, but you remember him stranding you at the OBGYN’s office after he took off in a huff, and you walking home in February stifling tears and trying to keep yourself bundled up.

Still, you tried to reason with yourself that things were better and you were just being hormonal. Patrick was changing. He was trying to be better.

And when Quill was born… oh god, how you loved that little, bald, wrinkly, pink, screaming gremlin. Your heart swelled just to hear his first cries, so much so that you thought you’d explode from the tumultuous mix of exhaustion and adoration. You were too loopy to hold him at the time-- his delivery had been complex as you’d always feared and the doctors had to perform an emergency c-section, leaving you feeling a little inebriated from your half-day’s wasted exertion and the anesthetic in your system-- but when you finally got to hold him in your arms you just felt… right. As if there couldn’t have possibly been any other outcome. 

Despite your fears to the contrary, you couldn’t resent Quill for being born. Even with all the influencing forces around you, it had been ultimately your decision to have him. Nor could you hold the childish belief that his birth would magically make your marriage better. But damn it, you were going to try to fix things. For his sake, if nothing else.

You manage, after months, to convince Patrick you need to see a marriage counselor. Unfortunately, since his heart wasn’t in it, the two of you only went once before he deemed things resolved. And for a time things were, indeed, better. He kept his spending habits down at first, and though he never offered to help deal with Quill at night he at least did some chores during the day to make things easier on you while you recovered from your c-section. The moment you were well enough to resume housework that stopped, of course, since you were on maternity leave and were home all day. Slowly, you felt you were losing yourself to this new routine caring for not one but two people. Your identity as a person had shifted into being part of a couple, and even that was melting down to one singular point. Motherhood. Your life, which had only been temporarily put on hold, now completely belonged to someone else.

Your friends, knowing your struggle to cling to the last vestiges of personal identity, tried to invite you out more. When you could arrange a sitter or convince Patrick to watch your son for the night, you accepted. It was amazing to get out and feel unfettered and free, to go out dancing or to hit a karaoke bar or just to stay the night at your friends’ house and play really nerdy board games and watch ridiculous movies. It was nice every once in a while to jump out of the rut you continued to circle in, to be exposed to something new and novel before going back to your ramshackle apartment.

What little savings you had quickly depleted and you had to go back to work, but the diner you worked at went out of business while you were still recovering, so you took up a job at a call center. All day you dealt with people struggling to pay their bills, setting up payment plans for the services they needed, only to turn around and try to sell them additional services you knew they couldn’t afford. It struck too close to home for you, grating on your conscience, but that sales quota was a minimum requirement to keep your job and you soldiered through it. It was soul-crushing, though, and it very quickly dragged you down. When your brain began meandering down seriously dark and irreversible paths you convinced Patrick to let you quit and find something else to do for income. He never let you live it down.

Patrick began buying prescription stimulants from one of your neighbors to focus on his schoolwork. Your financial situation began to deteriorate again, and your nerves were beyond frayed. On several instances Patrick reached out and asked his parents for a loan during what he always convinced them were “lean months”, charming them with his easy smile and bouncing Quill on his knee, a prop for his little show. It always turned your stomach and had your eyes burning with shame as you watched, head ducked and eyes averted. If it were truly just because work was hard to come by or that hours were bad the help wouldn’t have bothered you, you think, but… So far everything-- your inability to save money and get into an apartment not infested with pests that could make him sick, every bit of debt you found yourself in, all of your stress-- was because of Patrick’s poor impulse control and terrible coping mechanisms.

Shame turned to anger, which simmered under a tight lid until it condensed into bitter resentment. At home you began to mutter under your breath and back-talk whenever he started to get confrontational with you, and you became quicker to insult him. Your tongue developed barbs, lashing out with poisonous words to jab at his insecurities in the heat of the moment, only to taste the sting of consequence when you made things that much worse for yourself.

When Quill became old enough to start paying attention to the war being waged within the walls of his home, you tried to pull back. This was not the behavior you wanted your son to learn, and these were not the people you wanted him to have as role models for relationships. You tried, again, to convince Patrick to see a counselor with you… and again, you never made it past your first session. He didn’t see any problems in your relationship and there wasn’t much you could do to make him try.

Your last year together, Patrick had the brilliant idea to go down to your mother’s home for the summer and find a job there. He could work full time and your mother could watch Quill, saving you both on daycare. You both could spend some time apart and he claimed the time apart would make you appreciate each other more. He’d save up everything he earned while you used all your income to catch up on bills. It would be the turning point for you both, he assured.

And yet, he couldn’t help himself. Night after night he bought fast food so he wouldn’t have to cook, and he bought himself a game console to keep entertained while out of town. The funds in your joint bank account rapidly dwindled down to where you had twenty dollars after you took care of bills, and you still needed to buy cat food and litter before you could even think of getting groceries. Rice, cornbread, beans and ramen became your staple meals for weeks on end, and your mental health spiraled again. Your pleading to let you handle the finances fell on deaf ears, and Patrick lambasted you for trying to be a controlling bitch. You gave up. For a time you simply… existed.

Still you pressed through that summer, and a little bit of vitality returned to your life when Patrick and Quill finally came home. Your baby clung to you tightly and babbled incessantly, and like a little duckling he constantly remained by your side. It drove you crazy sometimes, never to have a moment to yourself, but it was better than the alternative.

Patrick’s temper grew shorter, but he began to spend more time outside of the house with friends he made in college. You started going to bed later than him and waking up after he went to classes to avoid his groping and his demands for intimacy that you long stopped caring to provide. You went to see your friends a bit more often, taking Quill with you on day trips out of town. You were disgusted, but not surprised, when Patrick began logging into your social media and scrolling through your phone to read your conversations, pissed that you weren’t desperate to spend time with him anymore. As if there were another reason you avoided him. But still you held onto the cracks in the foundation of your dysfunctional relationship, too afraid to let go.

Your marriage finally reached its breaking point when he said he was taking Quill to a friend’s house for a playdate with their toddler, inviting you to come along. The evening itself had been pleasant enough at first, if a bit awkward since you didn’t really know his friends. Everyone had dinner and the children played until they wore themselves out, and they were tucked into bed. But then the real reason for the outing became apparent when his friends brought out a bit of weed and they stepped outside.

Now, you personally didn’t like the smell of marijuana nor did you like the way it affected your brain. You didn’t react well to its effects at all, but you weren’t going to shame anyone else for recreational use. You did, however, become uneasy when you saw Patrick lighting up. It was illegal in your state, and your son wasn’t far. If the authorities caught wind of the situation, you didn’t know what the consequences would be. But you couldn’t stop Patrick, you knew, and you couldn’t leave. He was the one who drove you both and had the keys. So you awkwardly sat on the sidelines until his attention turned to you and he pressed the joint into your hands. He pressured and wheedled, calling for you to join them in their pleasant haze. When you declined he called you a complete killjoy and lamented that he brought you along, when he thought for sure you wanted to bond with him and get closer again. He called you a wuss, dressing you down in front of your hosts, until you stupidly gave in to pressure and took a long drag. Held it. Then took another when you released your first plume of smoke.

You shouldn’t have done it at all, but your mistake had been spitefully inhaling so much. You heavily dissociated, feeling a severe disconnect between your body and your mind, and your brain cranked your anxiety levels into overdrive. You mechanically sipped at water, trying to keep an outward appearance of calm at least, but Patrick could see right through your pretenses. You told him you weren’t handling the experience very well and were going to lay down, but that simple request was deemed unacceptable. He snapped at you for making a scene and embarrassing him, and before you could protest he stormed into the house only to come back out with a sleeping Quill in his arms. You argued and pled with him but were met with stony silence as he buckled Quill into his seat. Though you should have, he knew you weren’t going to call the cops on him when you’d face the repercussions too-- when your knowledge of the law was nebulous at best and you were terrified they’d take your son away from you. You were sobbing when he turned on the car and finally spoke, only to give you the ultimatum of getting in the car with them or walking home.

You shuddered and sobbed the entire way back to your apartment, praying to any god who would listen that you all made it there in one piece.

The very next morning, when you awoke with a dry cotton-filled mouth, you knew things were beyond repair. You’d known for a while, deep down, but now there was no denying it. You’d put up with his abuse for far too long, and probably never would have found the strength to break free if not for one thing: Patrick had willingly put your child in danger. You weren’t going to let that happen again.

The next time you visited your friends in Ebott you began to apply to as many jobs as you could. You began to squirrel away money, bit by bit. You had a couple hundred dollars saved, only taking small amounts out of your pay so Patrick wouldn’t notice. What he did notice, though, were the classified ads you tucked into Quill’s diaper bag and completely forgot about. When confronted about it you offered up excuses at first, but they were flimsy at best and when pressed you finally said the words that were a long time coming. “I want a divorce.”

His fists clenched, his face turned red, but there were no other indicators of his anger. He didn’t blow up at you, as you’d expected. He didn’t belittle you or start screaming. He simply went quiet and, fists shaking at his sides, agreed before disappearing into the bedroom. Scared of what he might do, knowing his weapon was in there, you called through the door for him to leave the apartment while you packed your things or you’d call the police. You didn’t trust him not to come out armed, and you weren’t callous enough to hope to hear a gunshot and a resounding thud on the other side of the door. Shaking, you locked yourself and Quill in the bathroom until you heard the bedroom door open and his footsteps pad through the apartment. Your front door opened and closed, and after many tense moments you heard his car start up and peel away.

You called your friends, finally breaking the dam and filling them in on everything that had been going on. Those that could hopped in their cars and came as quickly as possible to help you get out that very night.

So, you found yourself in Ebott and crashing in Tatum and their husband’s guest room. You were an anxious mess but they were willing to help you with initial funds for a divorce lawyer and were extremely supportive as you hit the pavement looking for work. Whenever you felt cagey you took to exploring the city with Quill along for the ride, and you felt a thrumming sense of… something. Not quite hope, hope didn’t make you feel like your blood was vibrating under your skin, but it wasn’t quite your usual brand of anxiety either. You had been isolated for so long, in a dead-end town with a manipulative and emotionally destructive husband. But Ebott was so big and open and there was so much potential. It would take years for you to navigate out of the debt Patrick straddled you with-- your car payments alone took up almost half your income-- but for once there was an indicator that maybe… just maybe… things would be okay.

Patrick called you every day and constantly barraged your phone with texts. You tried your best to ignore them, but he kept threatening to drive up and take your son from you. At one point he even called the cops, though the most they legally were able to do since there wasn’t a custody agreement to violate was perform a wellness checkup and give you a lecture about how you would “have to answer for yourself” in divorce court. It was easy for him to drive you right back into that paranoid state he loved to keep you in. You were constantly on alert, especially whenever you spotted any vehicles similar to his. Ebott was big, but you didn’t doubt he could be determined enough to track you down. All you could do was wait for your lawyer to finish filing the Order of Protection you requested. You would just have to keep a heavy-handed grip on your frazzled nerves until then.

Times like those, you took Quill to the park. The fresh air did you both some good, and you loved the scenery. There was a large campground nestled at the southern base of Mt Ebott, with several large playground areas and an open field for impromptu frisbee games. There was a river nearby that fed out from a dam, and fishermen lined up along the clay-rich bank to fish.There were several hiking trails that wove up and down the mountain but they didn’t interest you, especially with your kid being so young. Quill would just get bored or tired and you’d have to carry him for most of the trek, and with how dangerous the locals said the mountain was, you instantly gravitated away from such an activity. The playgrounds were much more both your speed. Quill’s favorite was the one themed like a pirate ship, so you’d settle yourself down on a shaded bench close to the river and let him toddle off. You’d watch him as he clambered up steps that were still a little too big and awkward for him, slide down the many plastic slides or fiddle with the giant plastic tic-tac-toe boards embedded in the walls. Other children would catch his attention if they were out and, ever the people-person, he’d follow after to join in their fun.

Today, Quill sat in the bottom of the pirate ship with a tow-headed kid perhaps a little older than he was. The two dug in the sand and swung around a few toys with animate chatter as you watched with a half-distracted gaze. Your purse sat on the bench next to you and your phone was held tight against your ear. 

You shouldn’t have answered that call. You shouldn’t have been still pandering to him.

“Of course I’m going to find my own place. Eventually. There are things I need to do first, debts to pay off,” you say, as calmly and as reasonably as you can. It unnerves you that he can show up on Tatum’s doorstep whenever he wants to, so when Patrick doubles-down on checking your whereabouts you can sense a little red flag waving in the back of your mind. “Why on earth do you think I’ve already moved again?”

“Because I have a right to know where my child is and where you’re living,” he snarls, exasperation in his tone. “Your lawyer has yet to respond to mine for official confirmation in where you live.” As if reading your mind, he adds, ”I don’t care where you live, I just want to know where my son is in case of an emergency. I’m not going to show up at your place or anything like that.”

It’s an asinine request. He _knows_ you have very few safe places to be, and he knows that all legal correspondence goes to Tatum’s address. But he either expects to catch you doing something duplicitous or he’s just trying to rile you up. You know this, rationally. All you offer is, “You already know where we live, Patrick. And even if you didn’t, of course I’d notify you if there was an emergency.”

“And also--”

“You--”

“I don’t care if you’re banging everyone in the entire state. I just want to know who my son is living with.”

“Okay, one, that was offensive. Two--”

“And what’s with that shit you’re trying to pull, hmm? First you say you won’t let me see him at all.”

You quickly talk over him, firm. “I never said that. I said you can visit but it needs to be supervised. That you can’t pick him up and take him with you.”

“Supervised visitation. Right.” Your gaze slides away from Quill for the moment, falling into your lap as your purse your lips. He’s offended and bitter, but you know you’re not being unreasonable. If you let Patrick take your son without a formal agreement in place, you won’t get him back. It feels a bit hypocritical until you remind yourself that instead of being able to talk to him and visit as you’d offered, Patrick would cut off all contact and run back to his parents. He’d already spun his version of the story and you knew they would help keep you away from Quill. Plus with Patrick’s temper getting worse, and his current track record for how he treats the people he says he loves... “And an Order of Protection? _Really?_ ” 

You blink, startled from your thoughts. You hadn’t even been aware the order had been put in yet. Your lawyer always took forever to get back to you about updates to your case; it looked like Patrick’s was much quicker on that front. “You really think I’d try to hurt you? Or Quill? When have I ever even laid a finger on you, and you’re saying I’ve abused you? How?”

“You--” Your heart is already racing from this sudden barrage of questions and you feel your throat tighten. You’re already knocked off balance. “You don’t have to hit someone for it to be abuse.”

“Right. Sure. I’ve abused you. I’m an abuser. Bullshit. You’re just trying to hurt me.” You frown but don’t offer a comment in return. It would be pointless to argue with him about it. Nothing you say is ever taken to heart. So you glance over to the pirate ship and scan it quickly to find Quill. He and his new friend are clambering after each other up the giant metal stairs, heading toward the slides. You take a deep breath, feeling it shudder in your lungs as your heart races. You let it out, slow but heavy. Patrick scoffs on the other end of the line. “Don’t act like this is hard for you. You’re perfectly happy with your decision. Everything’s perfect now.”

“Patrick--”

“Don’t you think you’ve already hurt me enough? That I don’t cry myself to sleep at night? You know, I have nightmares now. I only get to see my son for an hour last week, and I go home and have nightmares about never seeing him again.”

The sudden change in tone from harsh to pleading almost gives you emotional whiplash. It’s a low blow, and you close your eyes. The part of you that’s loved him for over a decade longs to say something comforting, wants to soothe the guilt he’s trying to drum up, but another part of you is angry. You take another deep breath, trying to stay calm. “...Patrick, I sympathize that you’re having nightmares. But that’s not my fault.”

“ _Of course it’s your fault_. You _left_.” You open your mouth to remind him of why that was, but you don’t get in another word before he speaks again. “All because you had to be in control. Because we were too poor. What happened to ‘for better or for worse’, huh?”

“And what happened to ‘to love and to honor’? You can’t pick and choose, Patrick.” The bitterness of your words have your lip curling in an ugly way, but your quick to wipe the hateful expression off your face. He can’t see you, but Quill can. “Of course this is hard for me. Why would I have wanted my marriage to fall apart? For any of this to happen? I--” You flit your eyes over to Quill, who’s now playing a clumsy game of catch with a giant rubber ball. He looks so happy, and you feel your heart ache. Your attention should be on him, and not this mess. “Look. I’m not going to do this right now. We should just stick to mediation.”

“I don’t understand why you’re being so hostile toward me.”

“I’m not being hostile. I’ve kept a civil tone this entire time. I haven’t cursed at you, or raised my voice, or insulted you--”

“Have I done any of those either?”

There was no question that he had, but he loved to make you make you backtrack, loved to deny his faults. He was always blameless and it was all in your head. Your faulty memory. You frowned, casting yourself back through your conversation so far. Your gaze wanders as you consider. “You just insulted my integrity not two minutes ago.”

“Really? How?”

“Okay, um… You implied that I left because I was sleeping around. You don’t care if I’m banging the entire state, I think your words were.”

“That’s not a slight on your integrity, that’s, I’m just saying I don’t care what you’re doing.”

“No, that’s exactly what you did.” A sound grabs your attention: your son’s voice, loud and cheerful, but not ahead of you like you expect. You startle and look around, and don’t immediately find him near the pirate ship like you’d expect, so you twist around to look for him. He couldn’t have gone far.

“I’m saying I don’t care if you go to the extent of that. That’s not my concern. All care about is who my son is around. And I think-- do I or do I not have a valid concern there? I would expect you to do the same if--”

“Quill!”

When you find him, he’s a couple yards to your left and just a bit behind you. The bright orange ball he and his friends were playing with had bounced out of their reach and bounded out of the yard, only to land at the edge of the river. It wobbled and shifted, caught against a couple rocks but threatening to roll into the water if the wind pushed just a little harder. Quill was ambling toward it, clearly eager to regain the lost toy. A jolt lanced through your heart and you were instantly on your feet, pocketing your phone in a distracted manner. Patrick’s voice cut off, but at the moment you didn’t care how angry he’d be for you hanging up on him. Your focus was on Quill, who was far close to the river for your liking. 

“ _Quill_!” You call him again, voice sharply spiked with worry. Your son stops an inch away from his prize in a whole-body flinch, shocked by the loud register of his name, and turns to look at you with wide eyes. As he pivots the ground beneath his foot squelches under the pressure and he slips. His foot comes out from underneath him, flying forward in a kick, and he flails backward. He falls with a gasp and a splash, ripping a cry of alarm from your throat.

You jump in after him without hesitation, the chill of the water nothing compared to the icy terror you felt coursing through your veins. Quill doesn’t know how to swim yet, despite your efforts. Though he was enthusiastic in his attempts he was too young and uncoordinated, unable to do more than a drunken doggy paddle when he wore a life jacket. Without assistance he sank like a rock. He’d sink and be lost to the current if you didn’t act immediately, and-- shit. You couldn’t lose Quill. 

This was all your fault. Quill was in the water, and you couldn’t see him, couldn’t pull him up, couldn’t find him when you opened your eyes in the murk and strained to see. Everything was sepia colored and dim, with silt filtering around you and stinging your eyes, and you couldn’t _find_ your _son_. If you had just been _paying attention_ , he--

Your hand connects against something and you recoil on instinct only to lash back out again when your brain catches up. You snatch at something small but it slips out of your grip, pulling against your fingers. _Quill_! You try again and latch onto cloth. Tiny arms wrap around yours and you shudder. Thank god. Oh… Oh, thank god. You pull, kicking up to bring you two above the surface… only to stop short when you met a sudden jerk of resistance. Quill wriggles in your grip and you delve back down, uncertain of the problem. When your feet meet the bottom of the river you plant yourself as best you could, digging your toes into the clay to fight against the current as you grope around. Quill twists and flails, kicking his foot against you weakly, and you slap it away only to grab his arms and wrap them around your neck. He needs to stay still so you could figure out what the problem is, but you can’t communicate that at the moment. His panicked flailing and the burning in your lungs doesn’t help. You simply hold his arms against your neck and press. You tighten your grip and press again, trying to emphasize what you need. The boy finally seems to get it judging by how he winds his arms tighter against you, his tiny fingers clumsily digging into the collar of your shirt. Either that or his own desperation fuels his need to hold onto you; you feel him dig his face into your shoulder. You can’t bring yourself to feel relieved just yet, though. You slide your hands down his small body, trying to find whatever he might be snagged on. Seaweed or fishing line, maybe. But instead your hand comes in contact with something firm wrapped around Quinn’s ankle. You flatten your palm and try to puzzle out what you’re feeling. Thin rods, radiating outward. Metallic, you think, because you can feel the jagged bumps of corrosion. Rust. Your hand slides outward carelessly and you can feel the skin of your fingertips prick and bleed from it, but you don’t care. Adrenaline is pumping hard through you, and your lungs hurt, and Quinn is jerking against your body in little pained spasms. Neither of you can hold your breath for much longer.

You touch upon something different in texture and substance, and you curve your hand along the bumps and rubbery bristles before it connects: this is the wheel of a bicycle! Someone dumped their trash into the water instead of taking it to the dump or just recycling the parts, and it buried itself in the riverbed. Now Quill’s foot was lodged into the woven mess of spokes. You clumsily try to work his foot out but he jerks again and twists, his motions becoming weaker. Everything hurts and you feel your own movements are turning erratic with deprivation of air, so instead you fumble inside and grab his shoe. You yank at the velcro and rip the sides open, your vision fading and your extremities feeling numb. Quill's grip starts to loosen from your clothes.

You have to get out, you have to get out, but everything feels disjointed and disconnected, and your head feels like it’s about to cave in on itself. You’re dimly aware of Quill’s foot finally coming loose and you trying to wrench your own feet out of the riverbed when, finally, you can withstand no more and take a breath.

Your lungs seize in revolt as water rushes down your trachea, and you try to cough it back out, only to feel more enter your nose. It burns, familiar. You’ve breathed wrong and choked on your own spit before, sending yourself into coughing fits, and felt like you were drowning back then even as you were able to laugh and croak about how idiotic that was. How you were ever able to compare something so mundane to the fire burning in your chest now, you don’t know, but your faculties for thought are quickly fading. As is the pain.

You feel Quill slipping out of your grip as the two of you begin to drift in the water and you make one last desperate attempt to hold onto him. You can barely move now, but you manage to weave your arms around him. Still, you were already starting to accept what you were trying so hard to fight against. The two of you were going to die down there, scared and in the dark, and it was all your fault. If you hadn’t answered the phone, if you hadn’t been so distracted…

The last thought you had, before you finally lost consciousness, was of Quill and how you had failed him as his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not satisfied with this chapter, to be honest. It feels too long and parts of it feel disjointed to me, and I'm hoping the dialogue isn't canned. But I say this while also knowing I triggered myself writing a lot of this, so my own judgement isn't the best.
> 
> Unsure when the next chapter will be out but it involves the Underground and some skeletons, so, huzzah.
> 
> \--Robin


	2. 'Cause I need something that can wash out the pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Quill wake up in a strange place. There are skeletons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up ahead I've played with the Undertale workskin, so if multiple fonts interrupt the flow of your reading, you can easily turn it off at the top of the page! :)

Your body moves before consciousness even fully returns to you, lurching and shuddering as it violently expels water. It comes in little fits and starts, clawing its way up and burning a path through your windpipe. Your lungs are replaced with stone and you feel like you’re being crushed under an insurmountable weight. You try to draw in air but a wheezing gasp is all you manage before you feel a violent spasm in your chest. Your vision is blurred badly and you don’t see much, though you do register the pervasive blue in your surroundings, dotted with more muted reds and browns. The world tips on its axis and the colors swirl before you feel another pulling sensation followed by a wave of warmth. This is more gentle than everything you’ve felt so far, and if you had the capability to do so you would have whined softly. Instead you grasp at your sternum in a futile attempt at self-comfort as your insides twist and burn.

The high-pitched tone of tinnitus and the erratic dull pounding of your pulse are the only two things you can process as sound at first, though as you continue to work the water out of your lungs and fitfully gasp for air you become a little more aware of your surroundings. Someone is talking in the midst of droning white noise. Everything they say comes out far too muffled for you to understand, but the cadence is slow and soothing and there’s a broad hand resting gently between your shoulder blades. Warmth glides over you like a brush of sunshine on your damp skin. Past that, you can hear something a bit more shrill. It comes and goes, the warbling interrupted with little sputters of sound and another deeper intonation.

Your head lolls forward and you sway a little, your vision fading in and out. You’re finally able to breathe, but it’s a small mercy as your insides still feel raw and exposed. Little searing pops of pain crackle inside you as you take deep, ragged breaths. Your eyelids feel heavy but you force them open and watch as your fingers curl and claw at the wood beneath you, your nails catching on the water-logged planks and pulling up splinters. There’s a puddle in front of you, tinged pink and suffused with bubbles. You squint and peer closer, trying to make out what exactly you’re witnessing, when it occurs to you. You had drowned-- nearly drowned?-- and aspirated underwater. Your body, in its throes of panic and violent attempt to clear its airways, indeed tore itself up from the inside. The bubbles you saw were from carbon dioxide or aborted attempts at drawing oxygen, and the pink… Yep, definitely blood.

Your stomach revolts at the revelation and you heave, expelling even more water that you must have inexplicably swallowed. Small chunks of food and bits of grit come up too, stinging and irritating your throat. Your body rocks again as another wave of nausea hits you and your stomach relieves itself once more. The voice near you pauses and you hear a short noise of disgust. The warmth around you doesn’t fade, however, and you shudder as it seems to seep into your very bones. You’re reminded of hot cider on a cold day, of warm towels straight out of the dryer, of the gentle embrace of a friend after a good cry. You must be detaching yourself from your pain because it’s becoming easier to bear by the moment. You feel exhausted to the point you’re about to nod off.

That is, until your ears unclog enough for you to hear again. That sharp shrill note is a voice, wailing and sobbing, interspersed by rough coughs. “Mama!”

“Quill?” Your head jerks upright and the movement makes you dizzy. “Quill!”

Someone makes a soft shushing noise beside you, patting your back. “EASY THERE.” The sound makes you flinch away, though you don’t know why. They’re not being particularly loud, though the timber of their voice somehow gives off the impression of high volume. Or perhaps it’s the proximity. “YOU ARE SAFE, THOUGH I WILL ADMIT YOU GAVE US QUITE THE SCARE!”

You clumsily worm away from the stranger as a familiar weight is dropped into your arms. You catch a glimpse of long black sleeves and white gloves before a tiny face blocks your vision completely and your three-year-old’s cheek squashes hard against your nose. You grunt but make no move to push Quill away, instead wrapping your arms around him tightly and nuzzling against him. He’s keening loudly enough to pierce your eardrums but you don’t care. He’s so obviously distressed it’s to the point where he’s hiccuping and coughing, and all that really matters at the moment is calming him. 

“It’s okay, I’m here,” you murmur, your voice shaking with adrenaline. Your lips press against his cheek over and over, and your hand lifts to turn his face and deposit another kiss to his forehead. “Are you okay?” You’re met with his cry of dismay as you pull back but it’s a necessary evil; you scan his face and body, looking for any signs of injury. Quill’s face is puffy and tear-streaked, his eyes red, but he otherwise seems to be fine. Not even a scratch. You’re surprised but infinitely relieved when you don’t find anything and your shoulders slump as tension drains from your body. “Oh… Oh, it’s okay, baby.” You pull him close once more and tuck his head under your chin. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” His hands curl into fists in your soaked t-shirt and he wriggles into your embrace. A gentle smile curves your lips and you squeeze him softly, reassuring him that you aren’t going anywhere. When his tears start to ramp down with little sniffles you sigh and lift your head up, looking around for your saviors. “Thank y-- eep!”

The spectre of death looms over you with a winsome grin.

That is your first impression, naturally, when confronted with a skeleton leaning over the two of you and watching with empty eyes. You flinch backward and so does it, startled by your sudden movement. Its sockets widen then blink closed in a bewildered fashion, which… What? You stare, mouth slowly falling open in shock and awe ~~and a small amount of fear~~ and wonder, gaze flicking up and down to take in its whole form. Even crouched beside you, you can tell it’s tall. Long slender femurs jut out of hunter green basketball shorts and you follow the bend of its knee to see knee-high combat boots. Your eyes travel back up, catching a glimpse of its ilium cresting above the waistline of its shorts. Its spine is exposed and you can see the lower half of its ribs before the rest is covered by a tight-fitting neon pink crop top with the word “JUICY” emblazoned across the front. You look beyond the skeleton to see another one, also kneeling but wearing a more muted ensemble of a royal blue cardigan, a black lab coat, and rectangular glasses. What you had thought to be white gloves were just its bare hands, now clasped together as it studied you.

The whole situation was completely absurd. An awkward, stilted laugh bubbled from your lips. “What?”

“I BELIEVE,” the skeleton managed after a moment, looking completely flummoxed, “YOU WERE SAYING THANK YOU? THOUGH YOU HAVE QUITE THE UNIQUE WAY OF DOING SO, HUMAN!”

“I--” Your words collapse under manic giggles and you have to force yourself to catch a breath. Your lungs feel tight but not it’s not nearly as painful as before, just a dull ache. As you regain some semblance of control over yourself, you feel your cheeks heating up in chagrin. Your heart is still racing, though the fear has been shoved to the back burner for now in lieu of embarrassment. You’re still very uncomfortable with it looking at you and sitting so close, but other than its sheer existence you can’t find any reason to be. You don’t know how this skeleton can move, or blink, or talk, or do much of anything other than lie about as a pile of bones, and honestly that’s more than a bit disturbing, but it doesn’t seem to be hostile. You clear your throat. “I-- yes. Um, thank you. And, sorry? For the way I reacted. I wasn’t expecting…? Uh.”

At your awkward gesture in the space between the two of you, the skeleton laughs. “YES! I WOULD IMAGINE IT IS INTIMIDATING TO STUMBLE UPON PERFECTION SUCH AS OURSELVES, BUT NOT TO WORRY! MY BROTHER AND I ARE VERY ‘DOWN TO EARTH’, AS THEY SAY!”

And then it cackles, a laugh that’s practically a stereotype to go along with its grinning visage, and the other one claps its hand to its mouth and snickers. You don’t understand the humor in that statement, but your lips curve upward regardless as you run your fingers through Quill’s hair. Your son shifts, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and huffing.

The one in a sweater pulls its hand away from it mouth, eyes crinkled in amusement. “Forgive him, his skill for jokes is rocky at best.”

“NYEH!?! MY JOKES ARE OF THE HIGHEST CALIBER!!! TIMING! FINESSE! THESE ARE THE MARKS OF GREAT WIT! WHERE’S THE CHALLENGE OTHERWISE?”

“I will concede to that. Though perhaps now is not the time for such things. Or the place.”

“AH! RIGHT.” The skeleton turns back to you and its-- his-- grin somehow looks somewhat sheepish. “WE SHOULD PROBABLY GET YOU TWO SOMEWHERE LESS… GARBAGEY.”

“What?” You blink and finally tear your gaze away from him to take in the full of your surroundings. The first thing you note is the waterfall to your left, cascading down and breaking itself apart against two mounds of refuse. Garbage does indeed surround you on all sides, from the little things like broken beverage coolers up to furniture and even major household appliances. Everything is shoved into piles but you don’t see any real organization to it. There’s no rhyme or reason except perhaps to clear some room for wooden walkways and make things seem less claustrophobic since the area you’re in seems to be enclosed. The quality and age of everything varies from nearly-new (if waterlogged) to completely degraded, but… Honestly, if you weren’t seeing it with your own eyes, you wouldn’t believe you were sitting in the midst of what was obviously a garbage dump. The rancid smell of leachate should be in the air, but you’re breathing well enough considering and your unreasonably weak gag reflex isn’t kicking in. Sure, the air doesn’t smell fresh, but it’s more… stale than it is sickening. You can’t even detect the musk of mildew. “Huh. That’s…” It’s odd, but you’re unable to finish that thought before another one pops into your head. “How did I-- no, that… That seems obvious. What I mean is, where am I? How…? What-- Who--?” You turn back to them and nearly jump again when you see their skeletal faces peering at you.

Your voice peters off and you simply stare, completely at a loss for how to voice your thoughts.

“LET’S START WITH THAT LAST ONE. MY NAME IS PAPYRUS! PAPYRUS ASTER! AND THAT FELLOW BEHIND ME IS MY BROTHER, THE ILLUSTRIOUS WINGDINGS ASTER!” What. You crease your eyebrows, incredulous. He waits until you realize he’s waiting for your name in return and you offer it with a shaky smile. The skeleton nods. “AND AS FOR WHERE YOU ARE. WELL, YOU SAID YOURSELF IT SEEMS A BIT OBVIOUS!” His large boney hands slap against his femurs and he pushes himself to a stand, unfolding his body before your eyes. He’s tall. _What an understatement._ You knew he’d be tall, even crouched beside you, but seeing him now… He absolutely towers over you, and you know without a shadow of a doubt you’d be far more intimidated if you weren’t still feeling blindsided. Well, that and the damn crop top. He offers his hand out to you. “ WELCOME TO THE UNDERGROUND!”

You reach out to clasp his hand and he squeezes firmly, helping you up with very little effort. It’s still awkward for you to stand because you have to readjust for the additional thirty pounds of weight hanging from your neck, and because you feel weak at the knees. They nearly buckle out from under you but you catch yourself at the last moment with a grunt. Papyrus’s hands have moved to hover around your elbows, ready to catch you if you can’t do it yourself but resisting the impulse to grab you unnecessarily. You’re grateful for that; he seems nice enough, but you feel a little raw at the edges and can’t be sure how you’ll react to unexpected contact. You tilt your head up to give him a smile, and have to crane back more than is reasonably comfortable. Yep, he’s got about two feet on you. Almost three, maybe. You shiver, feeling small and vulnerable despite how gentle he’s been so far.

Wingdings seems to interpret your response differently. And considering your son is shaking too, the skeleton is probably just as accurate in his assessment. He steps forward a few paces, slowly shucking off his coat. “Here,” he says, voice carrying an authoritative note to it. “You both must be chilled.”

Papyrus’s gaze slips over to his brother, eyes narrowed in an almost wary and expectant expression. When WingDings says nothing further and simply wraps you up in the the soft cotton he relaxes and nods. “YES! LET’S GET YOU OUT OF HERE AND SOMEPLACE WARMER.”

That sounds like as good a plan as any, considering you still feel completely out of your element and everything is just… so damned surreal. Animate skeletons aside. Your trying not to take note of how everything around you seems too rich in color, too saturated. There’s too much detail in everything you see, the outlines of objects too sharp and crisp even as the objects themselves look almost hyper-texturalized. Everything just seems… off. Dreamlike, but also far too real. You simply nod, finding it easier to acquiesce with a reasonable suggestion and go with the flow than to linger on how you’re feeling.

The coat almost swallows you up, but considering it keeps both you and Quill shielded from any unexpected chills you can’t complain. The length is ridiculous, though. It trails a good foot behind you, dragging along the dock. Not that you’re on it for long; the brothers hop down into the water and Papyrus begins to energetically wade out down a wide path. Wingdings waits at the edge for you, and you smile weakly. Water is the last place you want to be right now, but it doesn’t really flow that much around the skeleton’s legs and considering you don’t think he can weigh very much despite his excessive height you’re quickly reassured. There’s no underlying current to sweep you away again. You brace yourself and hop down as well; the water comes up to your thighs, the chill biting your skin through your jeans and making you wince. The bottom half of Wingdings's coat clings to you, restricting your movements, but at least you top half remains relatively warm.

The two of you follow Papyrus at a more sedate pace, Wingdings content to watch his brother in silence as you idly look around. The heaps of debris and waste around you are impressive, in a disgusting way. Did someone really go through the lengths of dumping an entire couch in the river? Was everything you saw a result of being washed out downstream? You could count at least eight full metal garbage bins. And was that a mailbox? Littering was one thing. The sheer disregard you saw here, for the environment and for others, was revolting. You catch a glimpse of rusted red handlebars and frowned, your shoulders tensing.

“I imagine,” Wingdings's voice cut through the silence, his soft basso somewhat muted under the slosh of liquid around you, “that you must be feeling overwhelmed at the moment. However, if you have questions I would be glad to answer them. All you need do is ask.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, your lips twisting thoughtfully as you rub Quill’s back. The boy has gone limp as a ragdoll and is breathing slowly, lulled into a light doze in your arms. If only you could fall asleep right now too. The silence stretched between you until at last you say hesitantly, “I’m still trying to-- to get my bearings, I guess. Are we really underground somewhere?” The skeleton opens his mouth to respond, but you barrel onward. “We’re surrounded by stone, I get that, but with all this garbage around there’s got to be a lot of methane trapped here. How are we even breathing right now? How am I--” Your voice catches in your throat.

How are you even alive?

When your brows furrow and your head ducks downward, your ramblings cutting short, he takes it as his cue to speak. Wingdings's eyes literally light up behind his spectacles and his smile somehow widens. He seems pleased by your questions. “Although the detritus you see around you does produce gas and other unsavory byproducts, there are countermeasures in place for such things. You may be hard-pressed to notice them, but there are several gas extraction wells to remove the accumulation of such harmful elements before they can cause any harm to those who spend any time here. The methane collected can be then transported elsewhere and converted into a supplementary power source for the rest of the Underground. Which, yes, you are underground though that is only technically correct. You are in _The Underground_.”

The careful emphasis draws your attention and you glance at him curiously. In your peripheral you can see Papyrus pacing around and peering past various trash heaps. He turns a corner, disappearing from sight. “I’m assuming there’s a difference?”

Wingdings nods. “The Underground, While _underground_ , is a distinct location unto itself. It is a kingdom developed by those of us who were banished here centuries ago.”

“...Skeletons?”

“Monsters.”

You balk, staring at him in disbelief. “Monsters. As in--” As in, the things that go bump in the night. The creatures humans long ago made up as cautionary tales, to keep naughty children from disobeying their parents. Shadows that lurk under beds or in closets, or tempt wanderers out into the woods to eat them. Ghouls and fiendish animals. Allegories for death and fear-mongering. Zombies, werewolves, Frankenstein and the like. Monsters? “Those are all fantasy.”

But can you really be skeptical about that kind of revelation when you’re talking to someone who could rival the fucking Pumpkin King? When you have a literal skeleton giving you a level and patient look, waiting for you to process things in your own time? That alone should be enough for you. You bite your tongue and sigh, catching yourself. “Okay… Monsters.”

“You are taking that rather well,” he notes, searching your face. What for, you can’t be sure.

“Honestly?” You laugh and side-step a mound of broken plastic, taking care not to let anything snag on your clothes. “I’m just trying not to say something stupid or offensive.”

“That is appreciated, but I do not believe in stupid questions. Deliberately obtuse or disingenuous ones, certainly, or perpetrated out of some need to be pernicious, but never stupid.” You both round the corner and Papyrus turns back to wave at the two of you. Wingdings waves back. He chuckles softly and glances at you from the corner of his eye. “And if you do happen to say something offensive, if I can discern no harmful intent I will simply take it as ignorance and explain why it is such. Is that acceptable?”

“Yeah… That pretty reasonable, actually.” You just hope you can react accordingly in the face of criticism. You’re used to going on the defensive and standing your ground when confronted, even if it’s not the best position to take. You shake your head. “So… Monsters. And you were banished here. Which is…?”

“The best we can ascertain is that we are underneath a mountain. We have spent centuries of exploration, excavation, and development here, and most factors point to such a likelihood.”

“Mt. Ebott,” you confirm, frowning. “But if Monsters are real-- if you’ve been here this whole time-- why stay down here?”

Wingdings pauses, and you have trouble reading his features. Smiles are easy, since the skeleton’s face is made for it, but without eyebrows to clue you in you can’t tell if the subtle downward shift of his mouth is out of shock, hurt, anger, bitterness, or sadness. Is he upset with you for asking, or is he thinking of something else? “Allow me to ask a question in turn,” he finally says, voice soft. “What would happen should we emerge from the earth? How would you expect humans to react?”

It’s easy to drum up an answer, but it’s not a pretty one. Humans, for all their intelligence and all their technological advances, are still capricious and distrusting by their nature. You know many wonderful people, but you’ve also experienced some real cruelty at the hands of your fellow man. You’ve seen the news, the hatred and fear spilling from people’s mouths as the threat of war mounts over land, over oil, over race or creed. Mass shootings, hate crimes, oppression and outright denial of basic human rights. Humans can barely tolerate differences in other humans, and you can’t see them reacting well as a whole. It’s cynical of you, perhaps, but wasn’t your own first reaction one of fear?

If monsters came up to the surface they would need to do so delicately. While some people would be thrilled to bits, they would be in the minority. Too much lore painted them in a negative light for them to be safe. It would be “shoot first and ask questions later”. Kill or risk legend being right and getting killed, yourself. Monsters would need a liaison of some sort, an ambassador willing to advocate on their behalf. But since no one knew they even existed, that was a severely unlikely scenario.

“It… wouldn’t end well,” you admit with a grimace.

“And this is something we know well.” The garbage starts to thin out and up ahead you see the space itself narrow to a simple carved archway. Papyrus reaches it and rises out of the water onto dry stone, then disappears to the left. “The humans sealed us away because they were afraid of us, and that unease gave way to enmity and thus to war. There were so few of us left when the Dust settled…” His face twitches into an unsettled expression and he sighs. “I digress. Whether we wish to or not, we cannot leave this place.”

“Because…” You purse your lips, considering what he’s said. Papyrus’s silhouette flashes by the doorway deeper inside the next room, moving right. “You’re trapped down here, somehow. Sealed away, right?”

“That is the case, yes. At the end of The War, the best of your Mages cast a powerful magic in order to cast us from their lands. Our kingdom has expanded out of necessity over the centuries, but only ever downward. we are unable to pass a certain threshold when excavating upward or outward. The Barrier they put in place sees to that.”

You shift the weight in your arms and squint at him, trying to decide if he’s messing with you. Magic. Human Mages. It sounds like something ripped from a high-fantasy novel, or from an RPG. But again, do you really have much cause to disbelieve him? He’s been forthright and honest so far, and it feels ridiculous to denounce the notion that magic exists-- that humans once had it-- when you’re talking to a Monster.

“There have been attempts to break the Barrier, of course,” he continues, averting his gaze. “Some are ongoing, in fact. There is little likelihood of success, but the attempt must be made regardless. We must draw hope for a better future from any place we can, after all. However... with public opinion of humans being so low, and history being a great indicator of what is to come, I hypothesize a bleak outcome either way.”

Papyrus swoops back into view and waves again, receiving one from his brother in turn. You wave as well, though you’re currently a bit distracted. It’s a lot to take in all at once, and yeah, you’re taking it well. Probably a bit too well, all things considered, but you don’t want to think about yourself at all right now. Not in any way that requires introspection, at any rate. Better to stay rooted in the moment. “Hey… Wingdings?” It’s the first time you’ve said his name and you take a moment to test it on your tongue. He hums in response. “If Monsters in general don’t like humans… what does that mean for us?”

“Ah… It is quite likely that while you are in The Underground, you may be attacked if you are discovered. Do not misunderstand,” he rushes to say, cutting you off. “It is not out of hatred that a Monster would do such a thing. Mistrust and fear are seeds that grow to choke at the delicate buds of hope. desperation is borne from such circumstances, and self-preservation is a difficult instinct to deny. As such, it is quite likely that with mediation any given conflict can be resolved peacefully should that situation arise. We have seen enough violence.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“It is possible I might be,” he agreed reluctantly. “Unlikely, but possible. Until we can know for certain, or until we come up with a viable long-term solution--”

“MY BROTHER AND I WILL KEEP WATCH FOR ANYONE WHO MIGHT HAVE BAD INTENTIONS!”

You jolt at those words and swing your head forward, eyes wide. The neon-clad skeleton stands in the archway in front of you, arms akimbo. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

“NATURALLY! WE WOULDN’T WANT ANY HARM TO COME TO OUR NEW FRIEND! ANY MORE THAN WHAT WE ALREADY HEALED, THAT IS!” Papyrus cackles, then shifts his gaze from side to side. “THAT BEING SAID, I’VE CLEARED THE AREA BUT IT MIGHT BE BEST... IF YOU STAYED BETWEEN US. FOR NOW. WE’RE ALMOST WHERE WE WANT TO BE.”

You nod, more than a bit unsettled by this new revelation. There’s a gentle slope to the archway, leading you out of the water to stand beside Papyrus in the new room. Wingdings follows you out and they flank you on both sides and lead you to the right. You feel like a child corralled between your parents on a busy sidewalk, shielding you from traffic and passersby alike. That’s the plan, though, isn’t it? To shield you from harm?

But why? You can’t help wondering that as they usher you past a shadowy doorway and take another swift right. Why, after everything, would they stick their necks out for you like this? It’s a question you can’t find the voice for just yet, dread sinking slowly into your bones and making you clam up. You resist the urge to look back, feeling as if you’re being watched.

You end up at a canal of some sort, where a hooded figure stands in wait. You bite down a squeak of fear at the site, reminded suddenly of the ferryman on the river Styx, and shake your head. It’s a minute gesture, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. Papyrus’s hand falls between your shoulder blades and rubs faintly, trying to reassure you. You glance up, and he seems perfectly at ease. Wingdings seems calm as well, though his posture is a little stiff. Formal. He nods to the ferryman and ushers the both of you inside. “Hotland, if you please.”

The ferryman hums a jaunty three notes in recognition of the request, and suddenly the boat is moving. It’s gliding a lot faster than you’d expect, and you sway a little before catching yourself and bracing against your seat.

“Tra la la. The waters are wild today. That’s good luck…”

As you clutch your sleeping child to your chest and cling for dear life to your seat, edging closer to Papyrus and eying the waterway dubiously, you sincerely doubt that sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Vivid aftermath of drowning, vomiting, derealization, monster-focused racism, mentions of war and humans generally being horrible
> 
>  
> 
> inb4 the "Aster" vs "Gaster" comments: don't worry, guys. There's a reason for this. One that will be... eventually... explained.


	3. Now I see fire, inside the mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You survive a boat ride and enter a laboratory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who are reading, for your patience while I churned this chapter out. October through December is a busy time of year for me, and whenever I did find time to sit down this chapter did NOT want to get written.
> 
> This also hasn't been proofed for errors, so if you see any, please let me know!
> 
> Update: I've implemented a workskin, so if reading multiple fonts throws you off, you can easily turn it off by clicking "Hide Creator's Style" at the top! :)

The change in temperature isn’t sudden like stepping out of your air-conditioned house and into a sweltering summer’s day. It increases by inches, the heat in the air cranking up the further you traverse down the canal. At first the change is welcome; despite the coat Wingdings draped over you, an uncomfortable chill settled over your skin from being completely soaked. Quill was damp too, and his little fingers were cold enough to prick against your skin and prompt you to rub them between your palms in an effort to get better circulation going. So when the air around you began to change, it had been a welcome relief.

But then the temperature continued to climb past a basking range and into sauna territory, the air thick from humidity and making you feel groggy. Just as quickly the environment shifted again, the thick atmosphere evaporating further and the environment becoming more arid. Your body adjusted to the drastic change as it came, your skin flushing from the rush of heat against your cheeks and your clothes sticking uncomfortably as sweat made your body tacky. Now, you feel gross. Quill’s face is shining with perspiration, and when you brush your fingers through his hair it clumps together in little oily sections, spiking upward.

You grimace and wipe your palm on your clothes, though it doesn’t do much. You glance next to you and note that Papyrus seems completely unbothered by the thermal surge and you groan. “Why is it getting so hot?” 

“BECAUSE WE’RE ALMOST IN HOTLAND.”

“...Hotland.”

“Yes. Just as The Underground became the moniker for our kingdom, Hotland was named as such because it is closer to the center of the mountain, where general proximity to its magma chamber affects the area as a whole.”

You whip your head around and lean forward to look at Wingdings, wide-eyed. “ _Magma_? Mt. Ebott is a _volcano_?”

“Correct, though not to worry. Our environs are quite stable, and the magma chamber itself is too far below us for the temperature to be uninhabitable. While there are Monsters who are sensitive to extreme heat, most can live in or travel through this sector with relative ease. Providing they stay properly hydrated, of course.”

“I-- Okay, but that’s-- this is still a _volcano_. A dormant one, yeah, but…” But there was no telling how long that would be the case. It might not erupt for another thousand years or so, or it could erupt next week. An entire population could be completely wiped out in a brutal manner, and no one would even know they ever existed.

Was that something the past Mages intended? If so, it was a really shitty thing to do, letting the Monsters think they were getting some sort of dark peace offering and still giving them a bit of hope for the future, only to trap them inside a natural disaster waiting to happen.

You struggle for words a moment longer, taking in Wingdings’s troubled countenance, and at long last give up with a sigh. “Yes… It is one of the many problems we have encountered down here, and for which we have long striven to find a solution.”

“And… did you?”

Wingdings nods, his teeth parting to answer, but Papyrus beats him to the punch. “NATURALLY! NO PROBLEM IS TOO GREAT FOR MY BROTHER!”

“Papyrus…” Wingdings’s voice is tinged with a mix of affection an unease, and he ducks his head. “I believe they were asking in general.”

“EVEN SO! WHY DENY IT?”

You must look like a complete fool for how much you keep staring at them both, but you don’t think you can be faulted for it. From the moment you woke up you’ve been completely lost, immersed in a brand new world you wouldn’t have even imagined existed, with beings who defy everything you’ve known about physiology and life in general, and they keep throwing you for a loop. Though it takes you a moment to wheel yourself through this one. “So… you-- that is, you, personally-- figured out a way to make sure it won’t erupt?”

“AND SOLVED OUR ENERGY CRISIS!”

“Ah…” The pride in his brother’s voice makes Wingdings shift a little in his seat, and you watch in fascination as his features stretch into an awkward smile. “That is a bold way of putting it. Correct, though painted with broad strokes.”

“How do you mean?”

“Monsters have adapted well enough underground with select sources of light, water, heat, and some means of agriculture. Some categories of Monster can produce magic that operates similarly to flames or electrical current, and power can be generate to a certain extent that way by infusing crystals for light and heat. Technological progress as a whole has been slow here, with such finite resources at hand. So as technology from above-ground progress and knowledge... trickled down to our people," Papyrus interrupted with a snort and a stern expression his brother's way, but WingDings continued unfazed, "we found difficulty in reliably adapting it for our use. Some magic can be sustained long-term, but the more intricate or taxing tasks cannot be maintained with ease. As such, Monster-made magic is unreliable as a source of energy for machinery. Geothermal energy, however…”

“Like the magma!” You chime in. Wingdings straightens, seemingly startled by the interruption, and you feel warmth flood your face from embarrassment. You didn’t mean to cut him off. But the damage was done, so you press on. “...So you came up with a way to harness the energy and heat from the magma and regulate it. You get power from it, and keep it in check that way.”

The smile Wingdings gives you washes away some of the guilt you feel from your rudeness. “Precisely. It was originally pitched as the 'Conductivity Repurpose and Extraction" Machine, but it has since been re-branded with the acronym 'CORE'. It is not a perfect solution and I cannot guarantee it will prevent an eruption, as there is always a margin of error to take into account, but it will serve our needs as long as it is well-maintained.”

“Papyrus is right. That’s awesome.”

“RIGHT?”

Wingdings merely shrugs, and it’s difficult to parse the expression on his face without certain human features as an analog. He’s uncomfortable, you think, so you drop your gaze in an effort to take some of the pressure off him. Your fingers sift through Quill’s hair some more, sweat making the fine strands stick uncomfortably to your fingers. Your son continues to doze in your arms, outwardly unperturbed by the heat. “I don’t know how you can sleep through this, kiddo,” you mutter. Patrick could, too, when you think on it. Just sleep and stew in his own juices. So perhaps he got it from his father. Still… “God, I hope you’re not getting sick on me.”

Wingdings shifts beside you, leaning a little closer, and on instinct you tense up. The two skeletons are just so much bigger than you, and space inside the boat is already limited. There’s a moment’s pause, and he inches back. “Your child appears to be fine, but we can better assess his and your condition when we reach our destination.”

“How can you tell? I mean…” You lower your voice, careful not to let the ferryman overhear. “It’s not like you have any experience to draw from, when it comes to human health, right?”

“This is true. I do not know much about the human body and I cannot discern anything medically at a glance. Monsters can, however, tap into the inherent magic that helps comprise a SOUL and glean a small amount of information from that Act. We call it a Check.”

“...Oh.” Well. That wasn’t the weirdest thing you’d heard today. “What kinds of things can you learn from doing that?”

“Generally, we can learn of someone else's strength of will, both offensive and defensive, which correlates into how we express ourselves through our magic. Those two statistics have baselines for each subset of monster, so we can learn a little if those numbers are skewed in either direction. There is also a chance of picking up on a... general mood or insight into a person being checked. For example: the beta-reading from a Check on your child indicates that they are exhausted, but gives nothing further. That is rather understandable, given the ordeal you have both endured.”

“That’s a nice way of saying that we nearly drowned.”

“It is a nice way of putting that your bodies went under considerable strain, yes. I imagine it was taxing to go through resuscitation and experience Green Magic for the first time.”

“Green Magic?”

“Simply put, healing Magic. It was necessary to facilitate a full recovery for you both, after the multiple injuries you sustained.” He must have read the alarm on your face very clearly, for he continued, “We would have gotten your consent first, were it not an emergency situation. If it would be a comfort to you, I can recount the process.”

“IT WAS QUITE GROSS.”

“N-no… No, that’s okay. Um.” You’re reminded of pink, frothy water and flecks of flesh. Your hand absently goes to your chest, where you distinctly recall a cycle between hot shards of pain and a gentle warmth. Now there’s nothing, not even a residual ache, which should have been completely impossible. Yet, here you were. “I think I can piece that together on my own.”

The boat finally comes to a stop and the skeletons step out first. Papyrus offers a bony hand to you while Wingdings pulls the ferryman aside for a quick word. The skeleton’s grip on you is firm without being painful and he eases you up without any strain on his part, patient when you re-adjust Quill’s weight in your arms. Only when he’s sure you’re ready does he guide you over the lip of the boat and onto solid ground.

Despite the heat, you shiver and tighten your grip on Papyrus’s hand. You doubt you’re going to be comfortable around rivers for a while. Your thumb shifts against the back of his bones, and you’re struck with the odd sensation that something doesn’t feel quite right about that contact. You don’t get to ponder it long, though. Papyrus pulls away with a congenial smile. “I’M GOING TO GO AHEAD AGAIN. THE LABS AREN’T FAR.”

“Okay. Thanks. For--” For being on guard, you want to say. For keeping you and Quill safe in an uncertain and possibly hostile environment. For saving your lives. There’s so much you want to say, and though the ferryman didn’t seem to be paying much attention earlier, you decide to err on the side of caution. “For everything.”

It sounds a little lame coming out of your lips, but Papyrus beams and cackles. “YOU’RE WELCOME, FRIEND! SEE YOU SOON!”

You watch him go with a bemused smile on your face. A big part of you still wonders if there’s an ulterior motive for them helping you, but it’s getting harder and harder to justify that kind of paranoia. Wingdings has been nothing short of forthright with you, and Papyrus… Well, he doesn’t really seem to have a filter on him. His word choices can be a little odd, but then again so can yours, especially when you’re excited. And he just seems to be so full of energy and life. He has a vivacious spirit, and a funky fashion sense, and you just… how can you be afraid of either of these guys? Aside from the fact that they literally loom over you like specters of death, there’s nothing that screams “threatening” about them. And you can’t fault them for the way they look.

“Tra la la. Come again.”

You blink, pulled out of your thoughts, and turn to face the river. Whatever conversation Wingdings needed to have has evidently conclude and he’s waiting on you. The gap in the ferryman’s hood is turned toward you but you can’t see anything inside the shadows, so you hope you’re looking them in the eye when you nod and smile. “Thanks for the ride.”

The ferryman’s hood shifts in a slow nod before they pivot serenely on the spot and coax their boat into moving again. They float away, humming softly to themselves. The image is somewhat peaceful, especially now that you’re no longer on the boat yourself.

Of course, that leaves you alone with Wingdings. He’s regarding you thoughtfully, as if he’s trying to puzzle something out or suss out the way to word something on his mind. But nothing comes from it as far as you can tell. He simply offers a faint smile when he notices your attention on him and turns. “If you are ready to proceed, we may go. Our destination is just up ahead.”

“Yeah. I’ll just follow your lead.” His lab coat is heavy and hot on you now, but you don’t dare remove it just yet. It’s silly, but you feel almost like you’re wearing a layer of armor, or some kind of protection, and removing it right now would be a bad idea. Instead you clutch each side of the opening and pinch it in one hand, holding it closed near your stomach. Wingdings has a long stride but takes his time, adjusting his gait to allow for you to walk at a comfortable pace. “We’re going to your lab or something, right?”

“That is the current plan,” he confirmed. “The laboratory area has many individual chambers for contained projects, not to mention personal offices, so we should be able to make use of a room with little difficulty. A better assessment of your health can be made while we work on other considerations. In the meantime, please stay close. It is easy to get lost if one is not familiar with the layout of the building.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m not planning on leaving your side,” you say, an awkward laugh warbling the end of your sentence. “I know I’m safest with you.”

Wingdings swings his gaze your way, considering you from his peripheral. “You put your trust in me so easily.”

“Well, you… haven’t really given me a reason not to?” You shrug. He’s right to point it out, though, so you try to explain yourself. “You didn’t have to rescue me, or Quill. We’re humans, and I know there’s a lot of bad blood there. But you went out of your way to help us, when you could’ve just-- you know. Let things take their course. And you and Papyrus have been really patient and understanding, and even now you could have just patted yourselves on the back for a good deed and moved on, but you’re still helping us. I… Hell, normally I’d be running the other way if a complete stranger was trying to take me somewhere I’ve never been, but… I don’t really feel that instinct with you guys. That little flashing light and voice in my head that screams ‘Danger, Will Robinson!’ isn’t there.” The two of you come to an intersection and he directs you to the right, where you can immediately see a blocky white building. The lab, you assume. “I’m still… jumpy, I guess? But I still feel safe with you guys. Something about this just feels-- I don’t know-- right.”

Wingdings’s lips twitch upward before he can mask the expression fully. “I am not sure I completely understand, but I appreciate the candor nonetheless.” He makes a broad gesture in front of a sensor at the laboratory door to open it, then guides you inside. 

When you step in and take a preliminary look around, you have to admit it’s all quite underwhelming. It does’t look like any science lab you’d ever seen. And sure, it’s not a fair assessment since you’ve only ever experienced them firsthand in an underfunded educational environment, and anything high-tech you’d only really seen in movies, but still. There are no chemical tables, no vent hoods. No worktables. Not a single computer in sight. The walls are a lovely lake foam green instead of sterile white, and there are plush couches everywhere. Soft music plays from some hidden speaker you can’t locate, and you count at least four different bookcases filled with various literature. A couple of saurian Monsters are on couches and dozing tucked up against the armrests.

It finally clicks; this is either a reception area or where employees go to take a break and get a fresh change of scenery. That… makes a lot more sense.

Wingdings leads you to an elevator on the far side of the building and the two of you descend into the lab itself. It’s more like what you expected-- blank canvas walls, bright lights and pristine tile, a multitude of doors indistinguishable from each other except by number, and a flurry of activity. There are a couple Monsters roaming about that you can immediately spot, and you can hear more behind closed doors. Though no one seems to be paying much mind to the three of you, you shift a bit closer to Wingdings as you both walk purposefully down the corridor and around the corner. The next hallway has a door in the dead center before splitting off to the left and right; you follow your companion down the former of the two paths and half-way down before he stops at a door marked WDA-01. Beside the knob is a card reader, the light solid red. Wingdings dips his hand into his pants pocket to retrieve a card and swipe it in the slot. The simple machine lets out a cheery chirp, and the light turns green just as you hear the door click unlocked. He jiggles it open and gestures for you to go inside as he casts a careful glance around.

When you slip inside you find yourself in what you can only describe as a small office space. The walls and tile are still dull to look at, but the room itself keeps your eyes busy enough. To your left you see a couple of old wooden computer desks pushed up against each other to fit inside the corner, and a bulky old computer takes up residence in the middle. The screensaver is on, running one of the default randomized pipe-and-tube mazes in a variety of bright colors. The desk itself is covered in papers and books, but they’re somewhat organized and tidy. The faded office chair isn’t fully pushed in, and you can see a coffee mug next to the mousepad. In the adjacent corner is a floor lamp, the lights turned low.

The majority of the room’s space is taken up by a giant worktable in the center. There’s enough room for two people to navigate around it with relative ease if all the chairs are tucked in, but the size of the table is still intimidating. It’s definitely not a human-sized table, since the top levels out at your shoulders. It’s littered with papers and pencils, bits of metal and wire and what look to be circuit boards. A toolbox sits off-center and open wide, its contents exploding outward to claim dominion over the work area. With a slightly bemused expression you note a half-eaten sandwich holding down the corner of a set of blueprints, with a drawing compass propped against it.

On the far right of the room you locate Papyrus, who busies himself by moving boxes of what you assume to be old files from atop a mottled purple chaise lounge. He’s efficient in his movements, as if he does this same thing far too often for it to be anything other than muscle memory. He glances back at the three of you when the door clicks closed. “HONESTLY, BROTHER. HOW YOU CAN FIND ANYTHING IN HERE WHEN YOU NEED IT IS BEYOND ME.”

“Simple,” Wingdings answers him with a shrug. “I do not let anything migrate to that side of the office, lest it be enveloped into the fold. It is a futile effort to attempt keeping his side tidy.”

Papyrus makes a low, disgruntled noise as he drops another box to the floor. “THERE ARE POPATO CHISPS CRUSHED INTO THE CUSHIONS. AGAIN.”

“My point stands.” Wingdings shakes his head tiredly. He tilts his head your way, and you watch as the ridge of bone above his eye shifts and compresses, mimicking a furrowed brow. “I apologize for the mess. Our brother, much like his field of work, is a force of chaos.”

“Eh.” You grin as you watch Papyrus furtively beat the upholstery to dislodge any food crumbs littered about. Wingdings steps behind you and moves over to his side of the office. “I’ve seen way worse, trust me.” Hell… You’ve _lived_ in worse. “And it’s not like you were expecting company to drop in. It’s okay.”

“STILL!”

“Really, it’s okay,” you assure when Papyrus whaps the furniture hard enough to make it scoot against the tile. Your shoulders tense at the slapping sound and the resulting squeak of old wood on ceramic. “You don’t have to clean up on my account.”

For a moment it doesn’t seem like Papyrus is going to take your words at face value. He frowns when he looks your way and you shift on your feet, distinctly uncomfortable with the way you’re suddenly under scrutiny. Behind you, sound of Wingdings rifling through his desk drawers fills the otherwise silent room. You adjust Quill’s weight in your arms and the skeleton’s gaze dips briefly down to the sleeping child in your arms before darting back up to your face. His expression softens and he sighs heavily. “WELL… ALRIGHT. I HATE TO BE A POOR HOST. BUT! IF YOU SAY YOU ARE ALREADY COMFORTABLE ENOUGH, THEN I CAN DO OTHER HOST-Y THINGS INSTEAD! LIKE GET YOU SOMETHING TO EAT?”

You mull it over, then nod hesitantly. “I’m not hungry at the moment, but yeah, we probably should eat something…?”

“THEN THAT’S WHAT WE’LL DO! GO TO THE KITCHENS AND GRAB SOMETHING WHILE YOU GET SETTLED! IS THERE ANYTHING YOU’D LIKE?”

“Uh, I don’t really know what’s on hand, so surprise me, I guess? You really don’t have to go out of your way, or anything.”

“It is no trouble,” Wingdings responds, and you turn to see him retrieve a folded sweater from the bottom drawer of his desk. He settles the garment on his lap with a similar one and shuts the drawer with a quiet click. “We will obtain something for ourselves while out as well, which should afford you some privacy for a time. I do hope my spare clothes are suitable for the time being. They will not be a proper fit, naturally, but will still likely be a pleasant change.”

“NYEH! WAS THAT PUN INTENTIONAL?”

Wingdings blinks, startled. Then, a rattling laugh leaves him as he rises from the chair with clothes in hand. “I am afraid not!”

“I DON’T BELIEVE IT! NOT FOR A MOMENT! YOU’VE BEEN DOING THAT ALL DAY!”

“My apologies.” With care to find an open space, Wingdings sets the sweaters down on the table. He smooths out the tightly-knitted fabric and you watch as the light in Wingdings’s eyes brightens almost mischievously. “I fear I may be so adept at word-play that my efforts are now... seamless.” Oh. Oh! _Puns!_ That explained the odd looks that the Papyrus kept shooting his brother’s way every now and then. You’re so caught off guard a giggle bursts from you. Papyrus huffs and crosses his arms, and Wingdings beams.

“UNBELIEVABLE! THOROUGHLY JAPED AGAIN!”

“Come now, Russ.” Wingdings snickered. “I did not mean to pull the wool over your eyes.”

“NYEH! NO!! THEY’RE GETTING WORSE!!!” A soft grunt of annoyance comes from the unconscious child in your arms and you look down to see Quill’s entire face scrunched up. He wriggles in your grip before burying his face into the crook of your neck with a heavy pout tugging his lips. Papyrus squeaks softly and covers his mouth. Through his bony fingers he whispers, “Oopsie...” You simply chuckle and shake your head to let him know it’s okay. The kiddo’s a heavy sleeper.

“...I believe we should take our leave now,” Wingdings said after a moment. He inclined his head toward the door. “We should not be too long.”

“Oh. Right, okay.” You side-step a little to let them both through to the door. “Thank you again.”

Wingdings is the first out the door and though Papyrus follows right after, he lingers inside the door frame instead of immediately shutting it behind them. He casts a glance over his shoulder at you and cackles softly, waving a friendly goodbye. You can’t properly return the gesture so you tip your head forward with a grin of your own. He’s really so cheery it’s infectious.

The door finally clicks closed behind them, and as promised you’re left alone to get settled in. But even though you’re bone-deep exhausted, you doubt you’re going to be able to really rest any time soon. Your mind is buzzing and though you had gotten used to your damp clothes on the boat ride over, now that it had been brought to your attention again you felt sticky and gross.

Nothing for it, then.

Basic needs, first. Rest could come later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of natural disasters, mentions of drowning


	4. But bags of bones seem so unsafe It's semi-serious!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get into warm clothes and eat some food

You shift the two sweaters between your hands in consideration. One of them is a lovely prussian blue, and the other a cream-tinted white. You’re sure, given where they came from, that they’re spares for Wingdings in case of an incident in the lab; with how they both feel soft against your skin, plush and near-new, you’re also just as sure that he’s never needed them. It figures. He seems the fastidious type.

It’s perfectly reasonable, then, to put the blue one on Quill. He’s still young enough that he’s a magnet for messes, and that’s not going to change for several years. Best not to risk ruining such nice clothes.

You’re not certain Wingding’s sweater will fit you properly, and you _know_ it won’t be a match for Quill, but still, it’s better than being chilled and chafing in damp denim. You know from experience it’s a lot easier to manage your toddler’s dead weight and dress him for the day when he’s sleeping, instead of wrangling him into new clothes when you’re both tired and irritable. So, you settle down next to the sleeping toddler and shuck his shirt off with practiced ease. He lolls his head to the side, dead to the world, as you continue the perfunctory stripping. When he’s completely bare you wrestle your son into the sweater, not at all surprised when it practically swallows him whole. Wingdings is a couple feet taller than you, after all, and you’re about twice the size of Quill. The neckline looks surprisingly proportional to his small frame, which… well. Wingdings is a skeleton and doesn’t have much by way of a neck, so you guess there must have been some beneficial alteration to the garment or that it was made with his structure in mind. But that’s it. The shoulders are far too broad and the sleeves look like deflated wind socks. The hem comes down to Quill’s ankles. Absurdly enough, it reminds you of the sleeping gowns he used to wear as an infant. Your heart constricts at the pang of nostalgia and you smile softly.

Once you’re sure your kid is comfortable curled up on the couch, you turn to your own needs. You pull off your t-shirt and toss it to your feet. Your sports bra quickly follows behind it, and afterward you kick off your shoes you divest yourself of all other clothes in short order. The cool, dry air in the lab makes you shiver and you run your hands up your body in an effort to chase away the goosebumps prickling at your flesh. They track heavily up your stomach and ribs, passing over and briefly gripping your breasts and pressing. Forcing the warmth of your palms to transfer, just for a moment. Of course it isn’t really effective, but it gives your hands something to do. You feel restless in the quiet. You huff softly and flop your hands down, your lips twisting into a thoughtful pucker.

At last you snatch up your chosen sweater and slip it on. Or rather, you wriggle into it. It’s not suffocatingly tight, but it definitely fits a lot closer to your form than you would normally like. Given the choice for every-day leisure-wear, you’d choose over-sized shirts or hoodies. This fit you more like a dress, conforming to your curves for better or for worse. The sleeves were a tad constrictive and long enough you had to roll up cuffs at the end. The turtleneck sat snug against your throat, the fabric tickling against your skin. The bottom hem came to the middle knuckles of your fingers. You grimaced; it covered you up in the appropriate areas, but just barely. You’d have to be careful how you sat or moved so you wouldn’t flash anyone. You weren’t body-shy, per se, but you were still aware of the impropriety and the fact that it made you a little more vulnerable. Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long to get your clothes dried.

You begin to scoop up the pile of discarded laundry to get it out of the way. Sure, this side of the lab is already a bit messy but that doesn’t mean you have to contribute to it. You quickly bundle everything up, but as you’re doing so you feel the hard edges of your phone in your jeans. You frown and fish it out before tucking everything beside the couch, out of everyone’s footpath.

A brief flash of hope runs through you that the small device might still work, but no. Your thumb taps against the home button but there’s no response. You press hard into the power button on the side and hold it down, but the screen remains depressingly black. “Fine. Be that way,” you sigh, flicking it away from you and onto your discarded jeans. It doesn’t do much to ease the lurch of disappointment in your gut, but the burst of annoyance that came with it fizzles with your words.

You almost would have preferred the frustration, because you’re suddenly hit with the memory of just who you’d last been on the phone with and why. And how that ended.

“Shit…!”

Patrick was going to be pissed at you when you resurfaced. If he wasn’t, already. You hadn’t bothered to check and see how long you’ve been underground, after all, and you can imagine exactly how he must have reacted when you hung up on him. Indignation. A quick call-back, ready to chastise you and make you feel small. Annoyance when you don’t answer, and another call. And when it died and started sending all calls directly to voicemail instead of ringing, that’s when he’d have left a message and called you immature, cowardly, spiteful. He’d have demanded you call him back instead of trying to shrug him off. 

But surely the police have contacted him by now to let him know what happened. There were other people at the park who must have witnessed what happened and called emergency services. He had to know you and Quill were missing now. Presumed dead.

Oh, god.

When you got back to the surface, he was going to use this incident against you. He had no reason not to; if he’d put Quill in this situation himself, you’d do the same. You endangered your child, and he was going to use that as evidence that you were unfit as a mother, and you were going to lose your child.

Oh…

Fuck.

Your heart jerks in your chest and you feel a pull, your lungs tightening with each frantic beat. There’s an immense pressure on your chest, squeezing the air from you even as your breathing remains constant. It just feels forced and cold, each breath blossoming shards of ice underneath your sternum, pushing lower and slowly filling you up with the pervasive chill. Your knees give way and you flop onto the couch.

You were going to lose Quill.

Patrick was going to get custody of your son for this, and after that, you’d never see either of them again. He would make sure of that.

A soft, distressed sound bubbles from your lips and you promptly bite down on them. You squeeze your eyes closed and force a deep breath. It pushes back out of you with a tremble, and you do it again. Your eyes prick with heat and you blink to press back tears. Your hand blindly goes to your son’s hair and sifts through the soft locks. It’s comforting and familiar, a reminder that he’s still with you. That for now, everything’s okay. He’s okay You’re okay. You can’t be certain thing will even go that way.

...No, they might be _worse_.

It’s terrifyingly easy to imagine charges being brought up on you for child endangerment. Jail time. Your son stuck with Patrick and dealing with the man alone, while you’re powerless to do anything, stuck behind bars. Paying for your ineptitude, your negligence.

Because that’s what caused this, you tell yourself. Your inability to pay attention to your child. You allowed this all to happen.

Your breath hitches again and you try to think of a positive outcome. Anything. Any way this might not end badly. But the only thing your mind supplies is the mantra of ‘Your fault, your fault, you’re going to lose him and it’s _your fault_.’

You wipe your eyes free of moisture and shove back at that torrent of anxiety with a different branch of self-deprecation. ‘Stop. Just stop thinking about it. It’s useless to think about right now. It’s stupid to work yourself up like this. Fall apart later. This is stupid.’

Your fault. Stupid. Incompetent. Stupid, this is _not_ helpful at all. You’re a horrible mother. This is useless. Useless train of thought, useless panic, useless _you_ , this is _all your fault_.

As the hateful rhetoric feeds into itself, your breathing deepens and slows in an outward appearance of calm. You keep your eyes closed to keep tears at bay, your fingers drifting through Quill’s hair with measured strokes. The pain in your chest, the whirlwind inside your head, the dizzy and cold feelings overpowering you will all fade eventually. You can ride it out. You can. You have to force yourself to.

The door clicks open and your shoulders twitch, your breathing falters, your eyes snap open. Wingdings and Papyrus are back. You steel yourself with a fortifying breath and the cutting spiral of self-directed vitriol whips into the corner of your mind. It’s still there, simmering on the back burner and condensing itself into a dark bubbling mass, but the sudden presence of company is a welcome distraction. “Hey, guys,” you greet with a thin but genuine smile, your voice pitched a little higher to force cheer. “That was pretty quick.”

Wingdings levels you with a look you can’t quite place, but Papyrus beams. He balancing two large trays in his palms. Behind him, Wingdings shuts the door silently. “WELL, WE DIDN’T WANT TO LEAVE YOU WAITING TOO LONG, SO WE PICKED UP A FEW QUICK AND EASY MEALS. SNACKS, REALLY! UNLESS YOU WANT SOMETHING MORE FILLING?”

“Ah, no. No, that’s fine, thank you,” you assure him. “That actually looks like a ton of food to me.”

He makes a humming sound of agreement and sets the trays down with practiced ease. “WELL. WE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT YOU’D LIKE BEST! SO!”

“O-oh, you didn’t have to--”

“NONSENSE! IT’S FINE!”

“I--” Ugh. You couldn’t really argue it, could you? Not after-the-fact. Papyrus and Wingdings already went to all that trouble to get something for you. The food was already there. Besides, they did say they’d planned to eat, too. It’d resolve itself one way or another. “Alright,” you sigh, relenting. Gently, you drop your hand from Quill’s head to his shoulder and nudge him. “Quill? Time to get up, sweetheart.” When he doesn’t stir you shake his shoulder a little more insistently. “Quill.”

“Nnnnng… Noooooo~” His head ducks and twists into the couch cushion.

“Kiddo,” you snicker, affection warming the lingering ache in your chest, “C’mon. Get up. Dinner time.”

“Few more minutes?”

“Nope. Up, mister.”

He huffs and wriggles, groans with more drama than any one person should ever have, and flops over onto his back with a ridiculous pout. His arms lift and then he flops them back down again in a grand display of his displeasure. Truly, no one has ever suffered such torment. You snort and ruffle his bangs, making him giggle in turn. There, much better. The kiddo flails into a sitting position and looks around.

When his eyes land on the skeleton brothers they widen and his lips form a tiny ‘o’ of shock.

You honestly expect an incident, right then. Quill is a very outspoken and friendly child, but this situation is completely unprecedented. More often when he’s put so completely out of his element it’s a direct result of your actions, pushing him to grow and learn-- he absolutely abhors trying new things-- but every so often things develop organically and you never know what to expect during those occasions. There’s an odd sort of liminal space you wind up in, during that breath and a half where anything can happen. The world opens up to him and shows him something new, and you poise yourself for his first reactions. In this case, you don’t anticipate an initially favorable response. Back home, you were used to checking for monsters under the bed and in the closet. Now that there were actual monsters in front of him…

Quill takes in a deep breath and holds it, his lips puckering and cheeks hollowing. His eyes widen further, focusing on the two Monsters and brightening. The expression seems to flummox them both, but it’s one you recognized as excitement and you feet yourself relaxing.

That is, until Quill breaks from his statue-still shock of joy and bellows, “Spooky Scary Skeletons!”

You jolt and scramble forward to slap your hand over his mouth. “Baby! Rude!” Your child pays you no mind and wriggles from side to side, poking his index fingers out and shimmying. Though it’s muffled, you can hear him chanting “Spooky Scary Skeletons!” into your palm.

The brothers look completely dumbfounded by Quill’s remark. Wingdings’s blinks rapidly in a mental reboot, and Papyrus’s jaw hangs slack. If this moment were encapsulated in a children’s cartoon, you’d bet dollars to donuts it would have unhinged and clattered to the floor by now.

Papyrus is the one to recover first, clicking his mouth shut and chuckling. His hands fit themselves upon his hips and he glances around with exaggerated movements. “SPOOKY SKELETONS, YOU SAY? WHERE? I SEE NO ONE SPOOKY OR SCARY HERE, YOUNG FRIEND!”

The boy flails and knocks your arm away, laughing. “You! You’re the scary-- the spooky scary skeleton!”

“Quill--”

Papyrus gasps, loud and long, one hand flying to his sternum in mock indignation. He pivots, looking behind himself before pointing at his own chest. “ME? ARE YOU SURE?”

“Hee, yes!”

“WHAT? WELL! I JUST CAN’T BELIEVE--!!” It’s then that he glances down and spots his own bony fingers. He gasps again, quite theatrically, and rears back with wide eyes. “BROTHER! IT APPEARS THAT I AM, INDEED A SPOOKY SKELETON!”

“It would appear so,” Wingdings replies dryly, his mouth twitching in the vague simulacrum of a smile.

“GASP!”

That’s what tips Quill over, it seems. His laughter is uproarious, and as he rocks forward on the couch it turns to outright cackling. The giggle fit only seems to spur Papyrus to ramp up the antics, which he does by turning to his brother and exclaiming with shock and awe at learning he’s, also, a skeleton. Quill squeals and flops onto his side, then suddenly plummets off the couch and onto his face.

“Oh, geez,” you mutter, dipping down quickly to grab your son. He doesn’t really seem fazed by his fall, but his laughter is starting to die down a little. “Alright, you cheeky little monkey. Time to settle.”

“I can’t!”

“Oh, I’m sure you can, kiddo.”

“It’s too funny!”

“I know, I know, you think it’s funny, but other people might not and we don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, right? We don’t want to be mean?”

“Yeah…” Quill giggled softly.

“So no more talk of spooky scary skeletons?”

“But they are--”

“Quill,” you say softly, “they’re not spooky or scary. We don’t want to be mean.”

Your son’s shoulders judder as he takes a breath and lets out the energy built up within. “Okay…”

“There we go,” you murmur, placing a kiss against his temple. He flops his head against your chest, grinning, and you can’t help but smile back fondly. “Sorry about that, you guys. Quill is still learning how to be respectful, and it’s a bit of a bumpy road. He didn’t mean any harm by it.”

“THAT’S OKAY,” Papyrus assures you.

“Children are easily excitable, from what I’ve observed,” Wingdings agrees amenably. He grabs a sandwich from the tray they brought in and offers it to Quill, who takes it without hesitation and starts ripping it apart and studying its ingredients. It looks to be some kind of meat and cheese. “Though pardon my curiosity: why would your child have reacted to seeing us in a manner so different from your own?”

“It’s, um. It’s a kid thing, partly? We’re more fearless and open when we’re younger, I guess,” you explain. “Though Quill’s actually getting to be that age where certain fears kick in… um.” It felt wrong to bring up the typical ‘monsters’ fear children tended to develop at around his age, so you pressed on. “But that reaction was probably thanks to a song we listen to a lot. Especially around Halloween.”

“Halloween?”

“Mm. It’s a holiday. My memory of its origins is a little muddy, but many hundreds of years ago people used to believe that the boundary between the human world and the spirit world would get thin enough for ghosts and ghouls and--” you pause and take a sandwich from Wingdings, frowning as you scramble to find the right wording-- “other things to cross that border. Some people thought that the spirits would cause havoc with crops or with their more vulnerable townsfolk so they’d take to disguise, and others thought they had something to gain by appeasing the spirits with bonfires.” You shrug. “Nowadays it’s a kids’ holiday for dressing up and collecting candy, but much of what we do today still comes from those roots in one way or another.”

“HOW DO SKELETONS FIT IN?”

To you the answer’s obvious, but Papyrus looks genuinely intrigued and it takes you a moment to really process this. You were just going right on and assuming that Monster biology was similar to humans, weren’t you? Okay, best to try to explain and clear that up. “...Well, skeletons are the framework for our bodies. When humans die, unless certain arrangements are made, our bodies eventually leave behind the skeleton inside. So, skeletons have kinda become a symbol of death and the spirit world to humans. And the song… it, uh, makes fun of the fear humans typically associate with skeletons because of it. It’s about how skeletons look scary, but that they’re not… really bad?” You don’t think you’re doing a good job putting it into words; you sigh. “Over the years, we’ve sorta caricatured the idea of death, and that extends to skeletons. They’re silly. Fun.”

“...OH. I SEE.” Papyrus tilts his head thoughtfully, his hand migrating to his lower jaw and rubbing. The bones shift against each other but you don’t hear the clatter and rasp you’d expect. From your position, you don’t actually hear much. You chew at your bottom lip and can’t help but wonder what’s going through his head at this revelation. Wingdings, beside him, seems to be equally as thoughtful as he takes a seat at the work table, and you suppose you should be grateful that neither of them look particularly perturbed.

Quill gasps in your arms and you glance down at him. In his left hand is the gutted remains of his sandwich, and his right is covered in shreds of meat and cheese. You wince when you see the mess he’s made of your lap and the floor. “Mama! My mouth tickles!”

“What?” You straighten and shift. What did he mean, that it tickled? You frown, concerned. He’s not allergic to anything that you’re aware of, but if this is something he’s never eaten before... “Does it itch?”

“No! Tickles! Like-- it tickles like pop, pop, pop, like candy!”

“...What?”

“It tickles,” he insists, and suddenly you have a tiny fist shoved into your mouth. You jerk back, balking at the intrusion, and make a face, but he laughs. “See? See?”

“Quill,” you sputter, rolling your tongue around to get flayed bits of meat and cheese out of the corners of your mouth, “we don’t put our hands in people’s mouths! That’s gross!” Reflexively, you wipe your lips and grimace. Then you swallow, and an odd prickle of static dances at the back of your tongue. It reminds you of Pop Rocks but altogether more subtle, more pervasive. You can feel it rippling along the back of your mouth and outward, like it’s seeping into your skull and vertebrae. The sensation dissipates as quickly as it appeared, making you shudder. “Okay, what the fu--...” You catch yourself before you curse, finishing of with a lame, “Fudge?”

Papyrus cackles and snags a sandwich for himself, taking a bite. You watch in stunned silence as Wingdings quirks his lips slightly. “Ah… Perhaps I should have warned you about that,” he says, and though he does sound contrite, it’s also impossible not to see the amusement coloring his expression. “Though we were worried you would be hesitant to try it if you were expecting it.”

“What just-- is that normal?” Quill, absolutely delighted at the novel sensation, sinks his teeth into the tattered bread in his hand and munches with gusto.

“For Monster food, yes. What we consume is all infused with magic, typically the ambient energy in the environment all around us. This makes it effortless to break down physical matter and process, converting it to give us the sustenance we need and minimizing excess. From our understanding, it has no ill effect on human physiology.”

“Well, it’s… pretty freaky-feeling.” Thinking on it, you’re not sure if you would have preferred advanced notice or not. It would have probably been a bit more considerate, but honestly, with how your nerves have been jangling at the smallest things lately, Wingdings might have made the right call. You’re pretty averse to new foods, and if you’d gone in knowing what to expect from an abstract perspective, without something tangentially related to use as a launching point for your expectations, you’d build it up in your head and refuse outright. You sigh. “It tasted exactly like I’d expect a turkey sandwich to taste, though, so it’s not completely jarring, I guess. Does everything do that?”

“It does,” he confirmed with a nod. “I do hope the sensation does not prove too distracting in the long run.”

You chuckle, shifting your own sandwich in your hand. Your smile is self-reproving, subdued. “Nah. It just startled me. Like biting into something you didn’t know would be spicy or salty. I think I can handle one whole meal without it being a problem.”

Wingdings’s brow ridge furrows; he looks like he wants to say something more, glancing over at Papyrus, but the other skeleton is busy with his own meal. And also, apparently, involved in a face-making duel with Quill. So for now he falls silent, keeping whatever comment he has to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: panic attack, self deprecation, brief worry about food allergies, mentions of death


End file.
